Heat music until simmering, add a few pages of letters, let brew until the sieve is knit. Enjoy in abundance with freshly baked writing.

I’m not alone in being fed up with Mondays, right? Even though I normally only work during the weekend, Monday is still something that smacks me in the face. And it’s not the distance to the next weekend, or the return to work, but the idea of the beginning of a new week.

I can’t remember when I stopped believing in starting things on a Monday or on the first day of a month or a year. It’s been a decade at least. I just know myself. If I won’t commit to something immediately after I get the idea, I will come up with a million excuses to not do it before the exact day of starting. Last year I started NaNoWriMo two weeks ahead of time because I decided I would NaNo and I had a strong WIP.

And however used I get to following my own schedules, weeks and months and years are so deeply ingrained into the culture around me that Mondays still get me down.

I guess it’s the imminent disappointment. Something new starts, which could be however good we make it, but eventually it will just be the same as the previous week and the week before that and the year before that.

I feel this especially strongly because I live in limbo now. I don’t have an active WIP. And my first novel’s manuscript is rotting in the inboxes of various publishing houses. And it will take at least several months before I hear back from them. And if someone wants to publish the text, I need to get back to it. And if no one wants to publish it, I need to get back to it then too.

I guess there are people writing about writing who write about this part of the process. But I have not come across it. And sure, I got back to writing during November, but I didn’t come up with anything that I’d want to spend the next few years on. I do have an idea, but I feel like I need to wait until I can properly get into the whole story.

And yeah, there’s the third reason I haven’t jumped into this new story. I’m afraid. And because of Steven Pressfield, I recognice the reluctance as fear and that’s something inside my mind. I’m afraid that I can’t do it again. The moment when I stood in the fog, trying to peer onto the path of the story with the finished manuscript is so far away in the past that it seems impossible it was like this before. But it was. It was worse. Because I had never finished a manuscript before.

Doesn’t really make it easier to start now. Well, probably it does, but I’m now aware of the change from my current point of view.

And it’s not just the writing either. I feel like I’m always waiting for something. I guess that’s one of the reasons I start everything immediately. Because at least I have power over my own decisions.

I feel like this is not how life should be. Always waiting for something else. Is this how other people feel? Constantly in a limbo. Actually, I was really happy all this year while I was writing. When I am writing, I don’t feel like I’m waiting to become someone else. It’s the one thing that makes sense. I guess it was something I saw myself as doing and it makes me feel fulfilled when I actually get some work done.

I don’t need other people’s validation for my writing – I’m a writer whatever anyone says – but at the moment other people have all the power. I left my job almost three years ago (I’d have left it anyway soon, because it was horrible and not for me) and decided that I’d give my all to writing.

Now I’m working a menial job and building my life around writing.

Oh, I guess this has been some kind of therapy session, because I realise now that I feel powerless because I actually am. At least partly. I’m at the point when I’m just waiting for some stranger to make a decision that affects my whole life.

Ugh. Sorry to be a downer.

I guess my only option to stop feeling like this is to start writing that new text.

So. That statement in the heading is pretty wild. But everything in life is subjective to time and situation. Everything is relative. And the book was very relative to the moment of time and the situation in which I read it.

Last year my writer friend Amber recommended me Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art. I low-key looked for it when I happened into bookshops, but it was never to be found. Finally I took it upon me to get it online. Even then it took me a while to get reading.

When I finally did, it was at the most opportune moment of all. I was already well on my way into resisting the Resistance which is what Pressfield calls the force that stands between creator and creating. I had finished my manuscript in the Spring and was workig on the edits daily.

I wish I had read the book a year or two earlier, but I don’t think it would have had the same effect on me as it did this summer.

It named my enemy. That’s the thing, isn’t it. In many fantasy books, the hero isn’t allowed to know her enemy’s name, because it would give her too much power. And names have power. I think the authors of those novels have been able to name their own enemy. Because in the end, it’s most often Fear. For both the hero and the writer.

You can fear both success and failure. Most often at the same time. The everyday work of a writer shows that each chapter, each paragraph, each sentence can contain both success and failure. A story is something you have to chip away at with the patience of a saint. Or a writer. It is there somewhere. There’s a bit of it next to that awful sentence structure. Another piece is hiding under that clumsy word. It is all there, you just doubt and fear that it’s not. Believe me. Just do. For no other reason than that I tell you to.

Oh, how reluctant we are to learn of other people’s mistakes! Or even our own.

Pressfield’s book also gave me the weapons how to beat this fear, this Resistance. I absolutely love the idea of being both the employer and the employee. I have had Monday meetings with myself ever since I read the chapter where Pressfield mentions them. And I’ve never been much of an organised, list-making sort of person. Until I began to edit in earnest, that is, when it proved to be the best tact.

The first two parts of the book worked for me. The third part was only interesting, because it shows how Pressfield himself experiences his work and himself as a writer. It was more about why he writes and how he sees himself now that he’s beaten the Resistance. It’s written in the same authorative instructive voice of the first two parts. I found that a bit much, but luckily I’m a writer so I don’t believe everything I read.

I finished my penultimate edit the week before last. I’m now waiting for the comments of a few betareaders. I have a busy week in my day job now and next week I’m at school, but after that I’ll go back to that story.

But in the meanwhile I’m using the resources of preptober and all of the writerly social media to plot and plan my next novel. I might even try to write the first draft in November for NaNoWriMo.

So this is going to be a writing filled month. I just had my Monday meeting in which Boss-me was very pleased about it and Writer-me was excited for the new project.

I’ve been taking morning walks and leaving my phone at home. Yes, it sounds radical. I know. When did I become so attached to a piece of plastic and wiring?

Today was the third day I made my morning walk and the first day on which I felt finally released from “phone-thinking”. Or “social media thinking”. Someone wise has probably got a name for this and has written about it very cleverly, but here’s my take.

I don’t use social media while I’m out walking. I’m not one of those people who walks around with their head in their phone. But I am one of those people who has got so used to having a phone camera nearby and reaching for it every chance they get.

That perfect lighting, that pearly cover or dew on the thistle down. The moment when the wind goes perfectly still and the bay reflects the sky and the yellowing, red trees. The waterfowls staring cheekily across the path at passers-by. Somehow all of this has become public property. It has a perfect sheen of an Instagram filter. Some of us may even get as real as #nofilter.

And this isn’t an accusation. I enjoy sharing my bit of the world with my friends far away. I have friends in countries who never get Autumn, or snow or see an annoying swan. I myself enjoy seeing nature I’ve never actually seen and might never do. Seeing other people’s craft projects and following their travels or the growth of their families.

It’s rather an observation that I had moved into a mental assumption that restricted my observation of the world. Photos always have a focus. They are not often moments captured but moments selected. But what about your peripheral vision? The one that activates your imagination as it takes in colours and shapes and mucks the waters under your unconscious.

I’m going to keep practicing on this. A whole hour per day spent entirely in my own company. It sounds scary, but also very productive.

Ironically, it was social media that made me leave my phone at home. An app that suggests me positive activities daily, suggested that I simplify one action. And that’s how I chose to leave my phone at home.

The weather has been absurd for the past few weeks. The temperature has kept close to 27-30 degrees Celsius and I do not care for it at all. On the first day of the heatwave I had an anxiety attack when walking to work. Heat and anxiety attacks and the beginning of my depression are a closely knit tangle in my mind. The last proper heatwave was in 2015 and my brain still connects those dots.

I started commuting to work from One Stone Island last week because even though I got a little more used to the heat, the poor cat shouldn’t have to endure it if not necessary. It’s only a short row and a 12 km drive to town, but compared to the three blocks I normally have from home, it’s a long way.

I’ve had evening shifts for most of the week, so what I’ve done is wake up in my own time, get up, make tea (despite the heat), write in my diary, read a bit, edit one chapter of my manuscript, go for a swim or a float in the cool sea water and then leave for work.

Yesterday the heat was supposed to break for a few days and it did rain a bit. Today has been cloudy and windy and the current 15-17C feels chilly now though it’s well within our normal summer temperatures. I’ve outdone myself today and edited three chapters of text. I now only have one chapter left, but I’m probably leaving that for tomorrow.

I’m enjoying the cool air and a pot of mint infusion on the terrace over the water. The cat is lying on the chair next to me and I’m pretty pleased with life at the moment. The edit is soon finished (it needs a few more touches besides the last chapter) and I’m pleased how it has turned out. It’s always as strange to read my own text and enjoy it so much. There are days when I’m convinced it’s the worst tripe ever typed, but tonight is not one of those moments. Tonight I feel hopeful and eager to share my characters with other people.

I had a revelation lately. I was at work at the gardening section and the gardener with whom I’ve become friends was telling me about the fruit trees on sale. One of the decorative apple trees is called the same as one of my characters (and a blueberry bush is actually called the same as my protagonist!). The name is actually his vocation and a very generic Finnish word, but still it felt like someone was talking about one of my very dearest friends. I’d had a lousy few days because of the heat and thinking my text was awful and there was so much to do and I’d never finish and I’d never get published and so on. But at that moment, with the apple tree, I realised that I could never leave my characters hanging. I love them and I want other people to know and love them too. It’s like finding new friends that you are certain will get along with your old friends and you can’t wait to introduce them.

The book I mentioned in my last post has given me the tools to combat my Resistance. Maiju is still a pretty tough boss, but the employee Maiju is progressing well, so she can be allowed such luxuries as a new crochet project and the possibility of a weekend free of writing after this version is done. But if I’m looking for some external force, some Spirit of Creativity, a Muse or some such thing, I have created it in my own characters.

I’m now going to wrap my fingers around a warm cup and enjoy the chilly breeze. Tomorrow’s supposed to be 29C again…

I have been reading an amazing book. It’s called The War of Art and it is written by Steven Pressfield. The amazing part is how far along I already was to the realisations the book gives.

This summer, blogging has given way to my paying job and editing. And I was doing so well on the latter until Mid-Summer which was my latest deadline. The trouble with that deadline was, that it was by no means realistic. After I didn’t make the deadline, I still tried, but my brain was going: oh well, it’s summer, so give me a break.

The book has one basic message to me: NO EXCUSES. Because that’s what always gets me into trouble. The most useful tool I got is the idea to look at myself as my own employee. Maiju the boss has an underling Maiju who does the writing. Jobs have both restrictions and benefits. When you do a job, you get days off. When you are working, that’s what you concentrate on. And when you switch from underling to boss, it’s easier to see the writing for what it is and could be.

A friend of mine who’s a researcher at a University has always had a correct attitude to her writing. She’s mostly an academic writer and only lately has ventured to fiction writing. When we meet, it’s all we talk about.

When we were in Uni, I had so much going on. We had a band. I was doing ALL the classes, just because I found them interesting. I was writing, I was doing small translation and copy-editing jobs and I had varying part-time jobs as well. At an office, or cleaning, or minding the bookshop till. In the meanwhile, my friend arranged to have a separate office for her school work where she’d go and work on her thesis or other class work.

Don’t get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed Uni. But this attitude of doing the writing “on the side” stuck. So even if I’ve now arranged my life so that I could concentrate most of my creative energy on writing, I’m just not doing it. Properly.

The book gave me the tools for that. It also gave me back my trust in my abilities. If it is this Resistance that I need to beat, and the Resistance is basically just fear, fear comes from inside of me and I can get over that. And it’s just so true that when you throw creative energy into the world, it comes back tenfold. Whether it’s just the subconscious concentrating on it or some kind of divine Muse, it works.

Last night a very old friend came to my counter. I last saw him at high school graduation 16 years ago.

High school was rough for me but not in the way American teen series depict it. I was bullied in primary and secondary schools but when I started high school, I felt I was finally safe.

In Finland we have compulsory education until we’re 16. After that kids go to either high school or a vocational school.

All of my friends from secondary school went to vocational school to become practical nurses. Each and every one of them. I was the only one who went to high school. There were four of them in the town: a Finnish one for people who wanted to do a double certificate (high school and vocational), a Finnish one that required higher grades from compulsory education, a Swedish one and an International Baccalaureate high school.

I went to the second mentioned. And I suddenly had all new friends. I mean, there were a few prior acquaintances and friends from confirmation school (which almost all Finns take at 15 during the summer) but they weren’t in my group.

I made friends immediately. Friends who loved music and reading and studying. Such friends as I’d never had before. I loved them with the fervour one loves as a teenager, thinking we’d be friends forever. We’d re-write lyrics, make up songs, write letters and enjoy literature together until we were old and grey. And they thought so too.

During the second year of high school everything changed again. These friends found their first boy/girlfriends and all but disappeared. I didn’t get it. And I felt abandoned. The girls who started dating bonded together and I was left out. The guys who started dating couldn’t hang out with me anymore (who knows why…). This was also a time when a lot of my friends took the exams for the music school graduation so even if they didn’t start dating, they weren’t there. And yet others started frequenting bars and night clubs after we were 18. Which I wasn’t really into.

I had read a lot up till then. But that year I slid into the world of books and escaped the hurt I felt. I borrowed a book from the town library after school or during lunch, I then read it during the afternoon classes and in the evening. And then I slept a while(4-6hrs) and finished the book in the morning or during forenoon classes. And then I did it again. And again.

I started from the crappy end of romance (sorry Harlequin and Barbara Cartland), proceeded to Jude Deveraux and Judith McNaught and such and then dove into Jane Austen and the Brontës. I reread Alcott and Montgomery and just about anything. And this was during work week. In the weekends I was living in Narnia and Earthsea and Osten Ard and just about anywhere else than the real world. I reread The Lord of the Rings.

The only person still sticking with me was this friend. The one I met again yesterday. I didn’t realise it at the time, nor did he, but he kept me somewhat tethered to reality. He called me out on my shit and I’d probably have failed all my classes had I not paid attention to them because he was there, pulling me out of whichever world I was in.

So I associate this person both with some of my favourite literature (I could rave about it to him endlessly and he didn’t mind) and being there when no one else was. No wonder I got emotional and nostalgic last night after I got off work. Never mind he was probably around because the girls he had crushes on never wanted to date him. He was there.

After graduation we went our separate ways. This was 16 years ago and he wasn’t into cell phones the last I saw him😂 I guess I always thought I’d meet him around town at some point. I never did. Our friendship never got the chance of dying a natural death in the way many others do. It was just cut.

During my deepest depression I went through past events and people of influence in my life and finally realised what a friend I’d had. And I decided I’d tell him and thank him the next we met. Which of course I couldn’t do at the shop counter.

So yeah. Some people are irreplaceable and you realise it only afterwards. I hope I’ll bump into him again sooner than in 16 years.

I was unable to do the final edits on the trip because I got car sick and then the wifi refused to work on the ferry. So I set it aside. I had a great weekend in Tallinn (bought lots of new tea), started working at the shop again on Monday, went to get the cat on Tuesday and now I have another day off and I already finished the edits an hour ago.

It’s a peculiar feeling when your dreams come true. Last week I remembered that I once dreamed of owning one of those beautiful editions of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I remembered it while taking a photo of said book for an Instagram photo challenge.

I’ve had the book now for several years, and I’ve actually never spent much time with it, because I have a tiny edition of As You Like It with selected sonnets printed in it. I carry that one around everywhere. It’s the size of a matchbox.

Another dream of mine was to have a whole bookshelf-ful of books of poetry. I obtained that goal years ago too, but made no mark of that either.

I want to take note of my wins as a writer. I recently read a twitter thread on how easy it is to just completely pass out on those, as it seems as if the next goal is always the more important one. I only finished a draft, which needs to be edited many times, needs to be sent to the publishers, needs to be accepted by a publisher. If I waited until my first publishing party, I might never get to celebrate anything.

I am now going to take some time off. Like, actually I’m going to be working as a cashier, but I’m not going to touch the manuscript until April. I try to not to think about it too much. I’m going to read, write a little on the blogs, a little in my journal, maybe a short story or two about the ideas I got in Tallinn.